


Veritas vos Liberabit

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Guilty Dean, M/M, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As of yesterday, I wanted to kill him in his sleep." [6.06] </p><p>In which there is a confused assassination attempt and no psychological reprieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veritas vos Liberabit

On his way back to bed from the bathroom, Dean stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. He stared at the other bed, cloaked in darkness so that all that was visible was the immobile lump of Sam's form. Trying not to make any noise as he walked, he tiptoed over to the other end of the room. Even from up close, Sam's face wasn't entirely visible, though Dean could just make out the point of his nose and the hair curling around his ears.

He swallowed, mouth dry and sour-tasting, and wondered just what it was he was doing, creeping around his brother's bed in the middle of the night. His brother.

Dean's brain got caught on that phrase, and he swallowed again, taking a step closer. His brother with the personality transplant. The trigger-happy sociopathy. The robotic efficiency and the perpetual sneer and the blood on his face that he never bothered to wipe off. His brother the machine.

Dean took the knife out of the pocket of his sweatpants. His hands were shaking, and he focused his energy on steadying them.  _What am I doing?_  He didn't have an answer for himself, so he touched the edge of the blade to Sam's neck. Not Sam. ( _Is it?_ ) The machine didn't stir. 

Dean brushed Sam's hair aside with the knife, squinting to try and catch a glimpse of Sam's eyelids, straining his ears for the sound of his breaths. He always used to be able to tell when Sam was faking it, but ever since his brother-- _it_ \--had sprung itself from the Pit, Dean didn't know a thing.

"I know you're awake," he said, voice not sounding as loud as it should have in the pin-drop silence of the room. He didn't know how he knew. Sam sat up, eyes glinting like a cat's in the dark. Dean's knife slid uselessly away from Sam's head, and Dean played with its hilt idly, fingertips buzzing, something building up behind his eyes. Wasn't Sam. Was Sam. "You gonna stab me with that pigsticker, or what?" Its voice was the most lighthearted Dean had ever heard it. Dean's was anything but, when he replied.

"I'll get back to you on that." 

"I'm surprised at you, Dean. Never pegged you as the ballsy type. 'Specially not when it comes to Sammy." 

"The fuck're you talking about, Sam?"

"Cut the crap. You and I both know that Sam's boiling in Hell." Dean gritted his teeth, wishing he had a gun in his hand instead. Sam tutted. "I haven't slept since I got back, you know--not once. Slipped out a couple times and you never even noticed. Too busy crying into your pillow. Sloppy, Dean. What would Dad think?" 

"Sam, I swear--" 

"I could've gutted you and you wouldn't even have been awake for it." 

"But you didn't," Dean said, grasping for a sign of some sort. 

"No, I didn't," It echoed, and it almost sounded confused, smug expression slipping just a bit before it remembered itself. 

"Get back to bed." Dean readjusted his grip on the blade. "Yeah, because I'll sleep like a baby knowing you're a nocturnal freak." 

Dean winced as the last word tripped off his tongue, feeling automatically guilty even though Sam wasn't around to hear it. Was he? Dean looked at his brother (not his brother), who had narrowed his eyes at him in a way that sent a cold prickle of uneasiness down Dean's spine. "Careful. I'm not one to hold a grudge, but there're a lot of memories up here that'd tempt someone less...rational." 

_If I didn't know you, I would wanna hunt you_. 

Dean lunged forward, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and slamming him into the headboard of his bed. Sam's right leg reflexively flew up and whacked Dean in the gut, and Dean's breathing was uneven when he held the knife to Sam's throat. Sam's face was the picture of nonchalance, razor-sharp features lit by the slice of predawn sky coming in through the window. Beyond the initial flail of his limbs, he hadn't resisted at all, and was now smirking up at Dean like he could see right through him.

"I could kill you right here." Dean's voice cracked unconvincingly.

"Oh? Go ahead, let's see it. You have my attention." 

"You're not Sam."

Sam laughed. "Really struggling with this, aren't you." It moved its arms up, and Dean pressed on the knife warningly, to no effect. "Don't move." 

Sam ignored him, gripping the back of his head with one hand and dragging him down so that they were nose to nose. "Quit fucking around, I told you not to--" Sam kissed him. It kissed him, mashed their lips together and trailed its hand down his neck, making him shudder and immediately attempt to draw back.

"I'm not your brother," it said into his mouth, low and hot, and this couldn't ( _shouldn't_ ) be turning Dean on, but it was, and he suddenly needed Sam with a fierce lucidity that hadn't been there before, that he'd been avoiding. His fingers smeared in something wet and warm and he realized that, one: his hand had come up to fist in Sam's hair, and two: the thing was bleeding.

Dean yanked himself away and dropped the knife, only to bend down and pick it back up. Sam's blood stood out on it like a brand. He licked his thumb and wiped the blade clean. Not-Sam finally stood up, looming over him and crossing its arms.

_It means you're a monster._

"I'm sorry," Dean said, gazing absently at the blood smudged on his thumb before cleaning it off on his pants.

"For trying to off me?" 

"For, uh. For the way I've..." Dean made a nonsensical gesture and sat down on Sam's bed, heaving a tired sigh. He tossed the knife onto the sheets and put his head in his hands. 

"Doesn't really do you any good to dredge up the past without him," Sam said, voice crawling down to Dean's ears from an impervious height. 

"Stop talking about him like he's dead," Dean mumbled. 

"He is. He's gone, and he'll never get to hear you apologize." 

"Fuck off."

Dean wanted to put his fist through Sam's face, bruise his cheekbones and break his stupid nose and mark him up all over, scrawl his name across Sam's body in blood and spit, but Sam was gone and he'd said all the wrong things when Sam was still here, hadn't fixed them before Sam took a flying leap into that hole in Stull Cemetery. The thing that was and wasn't his brother started to turn away, obedient as always, this shark-toothed automaton that still followed him around even though it could've torn Dean's head off anytime after their false reunion.

Dean stopped it, hooking a finger in Sam's belt loop and tugging. It complied with his silent request, pushing at Dean's chest with a forceful hand so that he landed on his back in the bed. And then Sam's mouth was all over him, hungry kisses that were nothing like what he would've expected from his little brother, hands clamped over Dean's wrists like cuffs.

As Sam ( _Not him_ ) pressed him into the mattress, the only thing on Dean's tongue was an apology. 


End file.
